Chapter 6 - Roman DeLuca Was My Daughter’s Father
The custody petition lasted six hours.
The rage lasted longer.
Serena’s filing described me as emotionally unstable, medically compromised, financially insecure, and incapable of protecting a child “connected to a high-risk family.”
That wording almost impressed me.
She had turned the danger created by the DeLucas into evidence that Sophie should be taken from me.
Her lawyers attached psychiatric notes.
Except I had never seen a psychiatrist.
They attached records showing a hospitalization for a “dissociative episode.”
Except I had never been hospitalized for one.
They attached a physician’s statement claiming my ovarian surgery had been necessary because of “self-reported confusion and unreliable medical history.”
All fabricated.
All built on the lie that had started five years ago.
My independent attorney, Rachel Kim, looked through the stack.
“This is designed to make you panic.”
“It worked.”
“Good.”
I stared at her.
“Good?”
“Panic privately.”
She tapped the documents.
“Then we dismantle publicly.”
Roman paid none of Rachel's fees.
I insisted.
Instead, the state victim-assistance program arranged counsel because my medical records were now part of a criminal investigation.
Roman offered money once.
I said no.
He never offered again.
That mattered.
At the emergency hearing, Serena appeared by video.
She wore cream.
Not emerald.
No fake stomach.
No makeup heavy enough to make her look pregnant.
She looked composed.
Her attorney argued that because Sophie was biologically Roman DeLuca’s child, the court had an obligation to assess whether her adoptive placement with me remained safe.
Rachel stood.
“Ms. Ellis is not merely the adoptive mother.”
She placed the DNA report before the judge.
“She is Sophie's biological mother.”
Serena's attorney went silent.
Rachel continued.
“Her client’s petition depends on medical records currently being investigated as criminally falsified.”
The judge looked irritated.
That was good.
Rachel was not finished.
“And Ms. Vale has no biological, adoptive, or custodial relationship to Sophie Ellis.”
The judge turned toward Serena’s screen.
“Then why exactly are you here?”
For the first time, Serena looked uncertain.
Her attorney said, “Ms. Vale is Roman DeLuca’s fiancée.”
Roman, seated behind us, spoke.
“Former fiancée.”
Every head turned.
Serena’s face emptied.
Roman stood.
“I terminated the engagement.”
Her attorney objected.
The judge said, “Mr. DeLuca, sit down.”
He did.
But the damage was done.
Power had shifted.
The petition was dismissed.
The judge ordered Serena and her representatives prohibited from using or circulating any of my medical records outside lawful discovery.
When we stepped into the courthouse hallway, reporters were waiting.
Someone had leaked the paternity result.
Questions hit us from every direction.
“Mr. DeLuca, is Sophie your heir?”
“Mara, did you know your daughter was a DeLuca?”
“Will you seek custody?”
“Will the child take the DeLuca name?”
I froze.
Roman didn't.
He stepped between the cameras and me.
Then he said exactly one sentence.
“Sophie has a mother, a name, and a life. None of those are public property.”
He walked away.
No claim.
No announcement.
No heir language.
I stood there stunned.
Rachel leaned toward me.
“That was useful.”
“Don't make me like him.”
“I said useful.”
We returned to the safe residence.
Sophie asked why everybody kept taking pictures.
I said, “Because grown-ups are nosy.”
She accepted this.
That evening, Roman requested a supervised visit.
I almost refused.
Then I remembered what I had demanded.
If he was her father, remember she is a child first.
A child deserved the chance to know him if he was safe.
So I chose a public children’s garden.
Ortiz sat twenty yards away.
Roman arrived alone.
No suit.
Dark sweater.
Jeans.
Sophie stared at him.
“You look different.”
“So do you.”
“No.”
Roman nodded.
“Fair.”
She showed him a worm.
He did not seem impressed.
She made him hold it anyway.
For forty minutes, there was no DeLuca empire.
No paternity scandal.
No dead patriarch.
Only a little girl instructing a feared man on proper worm etiquette.
Then Sophie asked the question I had hoped she wouldn't ask yet.
“Are you my dad?”
Roman looked at me.
He waited.
I nodded.
He crouched.
“I’m your biological father.”
Sophie frowned.
“What’s bio-logical?”
“It means part of you came from me when you were made.”
She thought about that.
“Like Play-Doh?”
Roman glanced at me.
“Sort of.”
“Did Mama know?”
“No.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“That's weird.”
“Yes.”
She poked his knee.
“Do I have to call you Dad?”
Roman answered immediately.
“No.”
“What do I call you?”
“Roman is fine.”
She smiled.
“Okay, Tall Roman.”
That became his name for the next six months.
On the drive home, Sophie said, “I like him.”
I gripped the steering wheel.
“Okay.”
“He doesn't know worms.”
“No.”
“I can teach him.”
“Apparently.”
Then she said something that hurt in a way I hadn't expected.
“Does he get to stay?”
I looked at her in the mirror.
“What do you mean?”
“People leave.”
Her voice was casual.
Children sometimes reveal their deepest fear while discussing traffic.
Rebecca had left before Sophie remembered her.
Foster workers changed.
Mrs. Porter came and went.
My job required odd hours.
Somewhere, Sophie had learned permanence was negotiable.
“I stay.”
“I know.”
“Roman?”
“I don't know yet.”
She nodded.
That night, Roman called.
“Did I do anything wrong?”
“No.”
“That's not reassuring.”
“She likes you.”
He was quiet.
“Really?”
“She thinks you're ignorant about worms.”
“I am.”
“You'll recover.”
He almost laughed.
Then his voice changed.
“Ortiz found the source of Serena’s forged psychiatric records.”
“Who?”
“Dr. Malcolm Voss.”
The name meant nothing to me.
“It should,” Roman said.
“Why?”
“He signed your Hawthorne operative chart.”
My stomach dropped.
“The doctor who took my eggs?”
“Yes.”
“I thought he was dead.”
“So did I.”
“Where is he?”
Roman paused.
“Working under another name at a private fertility clinic in Connecticut.”
I went cold.
“Still practicing?”
“Yes.”
“On women?”
“Yes.”
I sat down.
Roman continued.
“And according to financial records, Serena paid him four hundred thousand dollars over the last eighteen months.”
There it was.
The living connection between the old crime and the new one.
May you like
Serena had not merely discovered Salvatore’s secret.
She had resurrected it.
